


Rainy Sundays

by ruric



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-10
Updated: 2009-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack, Daniel, cabin, rain</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Sundays

There was a time when Jack didn’t think he’d live to see this.

Hell there was a time when he didn’t think _any_ of them would live to see this. Years going through the Gate and all it would’ve taken would be one close call too far but somehow he’d never given up. 

When he’d started out he’d had faith – not quite ‘King and country’ but near enough. He’d believed what he was doing – couldn’t have kept going if he hadn’t. But that had been chipped away – year after year, op after op until he’d barely had anything left when Charlie died. Just when he thought he'd let go they’d called him back.

He’d found his faith again, but not in God or country. 

He’d found in three people who walked shoulder to shoulder with him through the Gate. Sam, Daniel and Teal’c. He’d found it, fought tooth and claw to hang onto it, through all the situations they shouldn’t have survived, death, ascension and resurrection. He’d kept it when he stood down and had to watch from the sidelines as somebody else took _his_ team through the Gate.

And yeah, maybe he’d prayed, on more than one occasion to a God he didn’t believe in, that Cameron Mitchell’s run of luck wouldn’t ever give out.

The scuff of bare feet and the smell of freshly brewed coffee snaps him back to the wooden walls around him, pillows and sheets and the weight of the old hand-made comforter forming a cocoon from air that’s edging from cool to cold.

“Where’d you go?”

Daniel’s standing in the doorway, shoulder resting against the frame, fingers wrapped around a huge mug, glasses perched on the end of his nose, a small worried furrow between his brows. Hair standing on end from where he’s been raking his fingers through it, black t-shirt tucked into the BDU’s he still wears because “there’s enough pockets to hold all my crap” and Jack only has to squint just a little to see the Daniel who sneezed his way through the Gate to Abydos all those years ago.

Sure there’s a few more lines around his eyes and his hair’s starting to show grey at the temples but Jack always knew Daniel would wear the “distracted eminent professor” look well. And beneath all that, beneath the weight of experience of the things he’s seen and done, Jack can still see the 30 year old Daniel eyes wide with wonder stumbling into a new world. Eyes that still hold the same sense of wonder when he reads the reports from Atlantis, when he’s adding new pieces to the theories he’s working on with colleagues scattered around the globe and in Pegasus.

A soft cough pulls Jack back again – to the here and now and a lazy Sunday at the cabin, rain pattering against the windows and splashing into the lake.

“Nowhere – just thinking.”

Jack slides out of bed pulling on a ratty old red dressing gown that Daniel says makes him look like a dissolute Santa Claus, the cold air enough to cause a deep twinge in muscles that have seen too many knives and bullets.

Round he bed and he tips the mug, stealing a mouthful of hot liquid, followed by kiss tasting of coffee and more than ever Daniel smells of home.

But Daniel’s fingers are tugging at the belt of the dressing gown, ghosting over skin to find the old scar that always aches and digging in. Jack can no more help the soft sigh that escapes than he can stop the goosing of his skin as Daniel’s fingers slip lower, curl around him and twist.

Jack's not sure precisely when Daniel grew out of clumsy but he manages to deftly juggle hot coffee, steer Jack back to the bed he’s just crawled out of and manage to get them both out of their clothes with precious little help. Jack’s distracted by the taste of Daniel, by the expanse of skin that bears fewer scars than it should thanks to the power of ascension and resurrection - even if he sometimes sees that same skin burnt and blistered, it’s a memory that he manages to keep locked away most of the time.

“They’re not going to be here for a couple of hours, the roast is cooking, the rest of the food is prepared....”

Daniel's grin is slow and easy and Jack's learned not to fight that determined look. Aren’t they domesticated – a Sunday supper for their adoptive family, Cam, Vala, Sam and Teal’c – but when it comes down to it this is what they've spent the last 10 years of their lives fighting for. 

Home, hearth and family.


End file.
